


Plunge

by ETNRL4L



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Another 3-year Gap Fic, Dragon Ball Z - Freeform, F/M, One Shot, Short One Shot, Vegebul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETNRL4L/pseuds/ETNRL4L
Summary: After months of walking a tightrope's edge of sexual tension, Bulma and Vegeta have a chance run-in in the hallway of the wing they share at Capsule Corp.Words unspoken, each knows the invitation sparking in the other's eyes.Stubborn pride has kept them from each other to this point.This is the short introspective narrative of what finally tips them over the edge.Inspired by the short comic, The Point of No Return, inked by the brilliantly gifted artist, vegetapsycho.





	Plunge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyVegeets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVegeets/gifts), [rutbisbe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutbisbe/gifts), [VEGETApsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VEGETApsycho/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by the short comic, The Point of No Return, inked by the brilliantly gifted artist, Vegetapsycho. I would also like to dedicate it to Rutbisbe, who devoutly illustrates fan ficition for so many talented writers and is a master in her own right, and to LadyVegeets, whose amazing writing drove me to do this. I also want to send a shout-out to Mallie3 and to The Prince and the Heiress Google community. I am not a member but would like to thank you for helping Vegebul shippers find so many wonderful artists and writers.
> 
> This is completely un-betaed. Please feel free to critique and point out errors. I will fix them.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball or any of its titles. Dragon Ball is the creation of Akira Toriyama, who fully deserves all royalties he gets for this. I make no gains off writing this.

* * *

It was an invitation.

One of many extended over months.

From the moment they’d met on that far-off, now nonexistent planet, really.

A sneer with far too much heat about the eyes.

An infuriatingly deliberate (profane) poke at an armor-plated chest.

A superfluous sway of a lower body, clad in just enough to be this side of nude.

A surreptitious flex of the deltoids, the abdominals, the trapezius, the pectorals, the glutes (capitulating to the audience’s vantage), coincidental to the odd innocuous reach for a helping to something from the fridge, the quenching of a thirst, indulging a few moments’ respite on the lawn.

Inconsequential arguments, culminating in rabbiting hearts, flooding pheromones, and enough pent-up tension to pressure graphite into diamonds.

All invitations. Carefully set lures.

Both were avid hunters, if not of the same plane. Each cognizant of their own brand of genius, their uncommon (pathological?) drive for superiority, their abject abnegation of failure: the obsession with incontrovertible dominance.

And,  _were_ their specializations so different?

The innovator and the predator.

Hypothesizing, researching, theorizing, testing, implementing, modifying: technological advancement.

Pursuing, strategizing, maneuvering, corralling, brutalizing: snuffing out another living thing’s essence.

The process was no different, at all.

Truly…

An invitation. That was what this was.

But, unlike all its unrequited predecessors, this one refused to go unacknowledged.

It demanded acquiescence, sacrifice.

Hubris. Agency. Entitlement.

These had to bend, if not break. This invitation would abide no less.

Bending was in neither’s nature. And, breaking? Well… breaking was to be imposed, never borne.

So, for eons-spanning seconds, both refused to succumb.

Onyx striking sapphire, sparking like steel on flint.

Eventually — neither knowing who shattered the camel’s back — they found themselves in the same chambers. Hers.

Discipline, torturously (quite literally) fought for, and obstinately safeguarded, kept him at the threshold. He’d conceded and inch. A foot, she’d have to fight like hell to warrant. And he had a savagely earned lifetime’s worth of battle experience on her.

She, with leonine fluidity, swaggered well inside, stalling at the foot of the extravagantly appointed bed, before turning to face him. 

Their eyes met and held once more.

~~O~~

Those Eyes.

Damn those eyes.

Wide. Child-like. Innocent.

He had to choke back a snort. Absurd.

Her eyes epitomized the perversion of innocence. They desecrated the very principle by remaining round, guileless and steadfastly locked on his as one delicate hand lifted to the knot of her robe.

**_Obscene._ **

With barely a shrug — just a twitch, really — the silken material cascaded off her slender shoulders to pool at her dainty, manicured feet.

The damned door was still wide open! Hell, he stood leaning on the casing!

**_Vulgar woman._ **

_‘Her parents live in the opposite wing of the enormous residency compound. It’s well past midnight. Who but you could possibly venture by to see her like this?’_ A small voice quibbled at the back of his mind.

He resolutely told it to fuck off.

It was petty, he knew, remaining were he stood, denying her the dignity of privacy. But, he’d relish this small victory— this tiny moment of control in this situation, where, whether he admitted it to himself or not, he was well out of his element.

_‘There is no one within a hundred yards to see her.’_

**_Did I not just send you to fuck off?_ **

Unwilling to capitulate to... whatever this was they had maneuvered into... he remained stoic.

Still, he could not help the dipping ‘V’ of his brows, the narrowing of his eyes, as they abandoned hers to leisure over her nudity: the elegant length of her neck, the slope of her clavicle, the robust roundness of her breasts. She was small-boned, elfin.

A stomach — woefully lacking the musculature rote to one of his kind, but oddly pleasing with its facile trimness — tapered to a waist he could wrap his hand around at least two thirds of the way. And, likely, crush with a twitch of his fingers. Then again, there was nothing of this feeble vessel beyond his ability to pulverize on a whim.

From that cinched waist, her figure broadened into voluptuous hips. He consciously skipped over the most intimate of her anatomy to trace the length of those long, soft-skinned, toned (if utterly weak) legs, before doubling back to their apex.

His eyes narrowed further, assessing her pubis. She was bald. Odd.

He was in no way an authority on female anatomy, his pride would freely allow, but he wasn’t completely ignorant. The pod that carried him to Earth fed him schematics and statistics on the planet. Topography, geography, population, ethnicities, languages, flora, fauna: all fed directly to his limbic system by the pod’s neural interface during extra-planetary hibernation.

He’d spent a year learning all he could on his way to this planet. Every battle was won before it started, and recognizance was essential to developing strategy. His recollection was infallible. As was the case with Saiyans, both human sexes developed pubic hair upon reaching sexual maturity, sometime during adolescence.

He was not sure why the woman lacked this species-encompassing attribute. Illness? A birth defect? He hadn’t the faintest inkling.

It wasn’t… displeasing, per se. Just… unexpected. It was acceptable. More even. Alluring, he deemed, allowing his gaze to trace back up her figure to swim once more in the ocean of her eyes.

She stood as stalwart and proud in her nudity as he’d stand in full armor. That, he deemed alluring, as well. Exponentially so. Loath as he was to ascribe the distinction.

One would assume learning she was nude beneath the robe would faze him. It hadn’t.

He’d long realized she went bare beneath the flimsy clothing she flounced about in her idle hours, after work and on weekends. He wasn’t blind… or an idiot. He prided in his skill for observation. A skill he’d cultivated at a very young age.

Frieza’s legions were largely male or genderless, a personal predilection of the hermaphroditic lizard. However, over the course of his tenure under the tyrant’s thumb, he’d trained and fought along a handful of regiments containing at least one female– one who’d proven herself exceptionally gifted in the art of battle, of course.

Gymnasiums, barracks and battle beachheads were gender integrated. Practicality called for it. All soldiers ate, shit, bathed and slept in the same quarters. They were all outfitted with the same gear: skin tight battle suits and armor.

Though he’d been young when he’d had his first interaction with a female warrior, Vegeta had been astute enough to note, not just the obvious physiological differences, but also the conspicuous outline of what they wore under their suits.

It wasn’t hard to make the connection. The military provided chest armor – very constraining chest armor — for the torso, and guards for the lower body. Females had extra… vulnerabilities… necessitating more support. Hence, the extra underclothes.

Aside from that, Nappa and Radditz had taken him to a dozen odd brothels over the years, as some misplaced, self-appointed _duty_ of theirs to properly indoctrinate their prince in the ways of the ‘fairer sex’. He’d rarely partaken of the wares, disdainful of the very idea any common prostitute would deign herself worthy of touching the heir to the Saiyan crown. However, as he often did when confronted with his entourage’s ill-divined machinations, he’d salvaged the trips into learning opportunities, observing the stratagems females of many species employed to entice potential johns, noting that what they wore (or, more often than naught, went without) was a large part of their tactic.

These experiences had familiarized him with what women used as support under their clothes.

Which made it simple to realize the woman went bare beneath just about everything she wore when in his presence. There were a handful of days each month where she favored heavier, less revealing clothing— during menstruation, likely. Perhaps, she wore underclothes those days. He couldn’t tell. He was properly certain she used underclothes when in work attire, as well. But, the rest of the time, she went without.

It was a predilection they shared.

In fact, a couple of weeks into his agreeing to cohabitating with the woman, she had commented – in her shameless, brazen manner — about the lack of what she labeled ‘panty lines’. This had served as one of many unwitting confirmations on her part that she ogled his physique with enough frequency and scrutiny to notice so insignificant an idiosyncrasy.

_‘Yes. Hmn. Because you never ogle hers? How much ‘examination’ culminated in the epiphany that she, too, goes bare beneath her clothing?’_

**_How does ‘fuck off’ translate to you?_ **

That particular day, the woman had caught him in an uncharacteristically generous mood, and he’d condescended a response. “You have exceeded my admitted low estimation of your usefulness by supplying the apparel my training necessitates; the ridiculous and superfluous – casual, did you call them? — clothing, notwithstanding. My training attire is restrictive enough to provide adequate support through my range of motion. Nothing else is required.”

Her nose had scrunched, and she’d parried, “Yeah… it’s not so much a support… issue, Highness. You literally sweat through your clothes a few times over in one training session. It’s more an issue of… masculine hygiene...?”

He’d barely spared her a sneer, his leave equal parts abrupt and unceremonious, the shallow well of magnanimity to blame for his initial reply now drained by her idiocy.

How the _hell_ did _hygiene_ figure in the choice to use underclothes?

Days spent roughing it in the wilderness, when Earthen civilization threatened to fray the last of his tenuous equanimity and the compulsion to raze the planet grew near unignorable, notwithstanding, he showered daily. Capsule Corp. lavatories were as state-of-the-art as this backwater mudball could laud. They had water soluble paper for use after defecating, and the compound boasted toilets outfitted with an ingenious (if slightly emasculating) device that shot a strategically targeted stream of water for sanitation, if something as base as paper was not to one’s liking.

Were human males truly so lacking in intellectual aptitude that they would forgo the luxury of such accoutrements and simply scrub the shit out their assholes with the underclothes they were required to remain wearing until their next bathing? Like savages?

The very notion was repulsive. And _he_ was the heathen?

Albeit, he could easily conceive Kakarott indulging in the disgusting habit. If the shithead ever managed to _find_ his own asshole.

That passing thought of his rival twisted the casual, almost lax, scowl he’d indulged as he perused the exposed flesh of the female before him into a full-on sneer of disgust.

The woman noticed. Attuned as it had remained throughout his long inspection and juxtaposing introspection, her glare gauged every minute shift to his demeanor, no doubt. Barred privilege to his inner contemplations, the machine of her mind would logically read the change in his aspect as an indictment of her offering.

The assumption proved correct when something – Wariness? Bashfulness? Self-consciousness? — darkened the impossibly blue pools.

Her own diamond-edged pride forbidding the abdication of their optic joust, her body shifted, barely noticeably, toward the bed, hand twitching toward the comforter draped at the foot.

That would not do.

He straightened abruptly, one brow hitching, challenge raging in his eyes.

Her response was instantaneous. Her chin lifted with a regality he’d scarcely witnessed in even the most immaculately bred of Saiyan Elite females, and she squared her shoulders, causing the uplight from the nightstand to illuminate her breasts spectacularly.

**_Magnificent._ **

Girding herself in that imperious aura, she strode towards him, hips swaying erotically, hypnotically. An arm’s length distant, she stopped, shifted her weight on one foot and settled a fist on the curve of her waist, effortlessly emulating an alabaster effigy— one carved by the hand of a prodigy.

Without his leave, his eyes followed the motion to her smooth womanhood. He fought the urge to wet his suddenly parched lips. He could scent her. He could _always_ scent her, of course. And, anyone else within a fifty-yard radius. Every element of his composition transcended in comparison to the natives of this planet. His senses were no exception. Still, this close, with no clothing to mottle his olfactory prowess, her essence was salient enough to attain tangibility. It overwhelmed his sinuses, coating his tongue.

Maddening!

The animal instinct to taste her, to know if the tang invading his mouth matched that of her feminine vignette, tested as he’d never known before the limits of his hard-fought discipline. The dilation of his already near-indistinguishable irises, the boil in his surging blood, the rise in his chi; the damnable _ache_ for it making him hyperaware.

The impulse to possess overwhelmed, distracted. So much so that he fell blind to his enemy’s plan of attack, the thought never crossing his mind. May he _not be_ the only one with designs of staking a claim this night?

_‘Silly, silly princeling.’_

The woman remained stock-still, tantalizingly just out of reach. Bared, glowing, satin porcelain flesh a weapon as deadly as a chi blast.

Proud. Unyielding. Glorious.

Quite without conscious thought, will bent to physiology. In a fluttering heartbeat, he was stood before her, the automatic door hissing closed behind him, heralding the woman’s conquest. Shame he resolutely would not allow his expression to betray, now mixed with the uncertainty that had plagued him in the hallway when he’d encountered her, standing just outside her room, staring into him.

An invitation.

For all his previous bravado, he stood frozen inches from her, simultaneously stymied and stimulated by the nothing woman before him.

He would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it, if unsolicited apprehension were not suddenly compressing all the air he’d need for the act out of his lungs. There was nothing of power to her. She was impossibly frail.

**_I can break you with less than a thought. You realize that, yes?_ **

Her eyes softened, and his breath caught, for an instant the impossible thought he’d telegraphed the notion to her somehow crossing his mind. Made her privy to his doubts… his weakness.

Then his rational mind engaged and he released the caught breath, knowing the impossibility of her ever learning his thoughts.

She inched closer, however, so close her pert nipples ghosted over the bare flesh of his chest. So close the air he now breathed in fits and starts was heated from her exhalations. Out of the blue, the image of polished alabaster scraping over oil rubbed bronze flickered in his mind’s eye, then faded as quickly.

Her face inclined, as if positioning for a kiss, a tiny peak of a pink tongue slicking over the upper of her slightly parted lips.

He swallowed thickly, eyes tracking to her perfect heart of a mouth.

Then, her fingertips alighted on the cleft of his sternum, eliciting an involuntary spasm of his pectorals. Mirth danced in her eyes as her fingers spider-crawled across the peak-and-valley sinew weaving his abdomen.  

Lower, lower, until eight small fingertips latched into the waistband of the training pants he wore, as they’d rendezvoused in the hall, him mid-destination from the gravity simulator to his chambers.

“One of us is overdressed, I think,” she breathed melodically across his lips, putting unnecessary extra emphasis on the ‘k’.

“Hmn”, was the breadth of his eloquence. His occipital and temporal lobes were benefitting from precious little oxygen. His reproductive organs had a chokehold monopoly on his circulatory system for the foreseeable future.   

With a bite at her lower lip, eyes trained on his, her fingers tugged down. Not far. Just enough that her fingers found themselves tangling in curly down.

And he broke.

He closed the nothing distance to crush his mouth to hers, bruising. She gasped, surprised, and he capitalized, tongue plunging to lap at hers with a desperation previously unwitnessed and completely unknown. One arm came to wrap across her upper back, reaching to bury his hand in the blue waves at the base of her neck.

The other arm dipped to her glutes, fingers curling to cup the impossibly soft skin of one rotund mound. He pressed her flush to him, knowing the material of his pants did nothing to keep the titanium-hard proof her little powerplay had succeeded in igniting the most base of needs within him from becoming inescapably evident to her.

Her hands remained trapped between their bodies as he continued the exhaustive exploration of her mouth, the tip of his tongue meticulously mapping every ridge of the roof, dipping between her inner lip and gums, lapping leisurely at the tiny taste receptacles blanketing her tongue.

After some time, his oral examination satisfied temporarily, he broke off for air. The hand cradling her bottom lifted and the woman squeaked at the discovery her feet no longer touched the carpeted floor. Before her next breath, she’d landed on the mattress with a huff, barely keeping enough wits about her to prop herself on her elbows to follow his movements.

His chest heaved, abdominals contracting, as he bent, moving frantically to pull off one boot before losing patience with the other and kicking the half loose thing off, somewhere across the room. Then, without preamble, he wedged fingers into the already precariously low waistband of his pants and peeled down to his ankles, toeing the fabric off violently. It landed somewhere near the aforementioned boot.

Now properly nude, he veritably pounced at her, only to freeze when she sat up entirely and brought up a palm. Something like a snarl rumbled deep in his throat. “WHAT IS IT NOW, WOMAN?”

Had he not conceded? Had he not debased himself enough? Lowered himself enough? What gain could be had in torturing a conquered enemy?

_‘Uhm, didn’t someone take perverse pleasure in torturing conquered and demoralized – what? — billions of enemies?”_

**_F-U-C-K the hell O-F-F!_ **

She scoffed, her exasperation serving to deepen the already heated flush staining her form, and purge all cogent thought left to him. “Well, let me get a decent look at you, for starters. You could have drawn a fucking Michelangelo with how long you stared at _me_. I deserve the semf—"

Mustering gentleness from some who-the-fuck-knew-about reserve he’d never before needed to tap, he’d pinned the offending palm above her head, managing to avoid damaging her. Once more, he consumed her mouth, hijacking whatever breath she could spare for speech.

His body molded to hers, as he guided his other arm to wrap around her back. He sat back on his haunches, settling her in his lap. In this positon, her mind-bendingly moist and warm center ground delicious over the base of his painfully hard shaft. Her core pressed the engorged organ into his stomach when he crushed her impossibly even closer, subconsciously rutting slowly against her, as he continued ravaging her mouth.

“A-herr,” he mumbled, not breaking off, the word barely discernible with her tongue now lodged well to his uvula, impeding his speech. He pulled away for a moment, a string of saliva still connecting them.

“Woman, you can paint whatever the fuck a Michelangelo is of me, after.”

* * *

 


End file.
